


Aiding and Abetting

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Series: What's in a Name? [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, White Collar
Genre: Neil Josten is Just a Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:57:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13794096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Neal Caffrey and Neil Josten are brothers.Neal finds out that his father isn't dead. He learns he has a younger brother and sets out to find him.





	Aiding and Abetting

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't expecting the response I got on my last fic, but I'm really glad you guys enjoyed it! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Comment or leave kudos. 
> 
> Please read the PS! 
> 
> :)

  
It's raining. The sky is dark and black, like a metaphor for something twisted. Hawthorne, he thinks, would describe it well. Rain beats down on his bedroom window. It's powerful, dark. It feels calming. It shouldn't be, Danny thinks. No, _Neal_ thinks—it’s Neal. Danny never existed, except on the breath of a lie.

His whole life was a lie.

He wonders what this makes him. If the blood on his father's hands trickles its way through Neal's veins. If he inherited more than the man's eyes. Maybe his sins, maybe his violence, is Neal's, too.

His father was never a police officer. Mom lied about that, along with everything else.

Neal Wesninski. The son of the Butcher. He doesn't want to be that person. But he can't be Danny, either.

He wonders how the new son of the Butcher feels. If he feels like a Wesninski or if he goes to school under a different name. Maybe he goes by his mother's maiden name. Neal makes a mental note of this idea—he'll have to ask Ellen who his mother was before she met Wesninski.

The son of the Butcher.

The kid is eight, Neal knows. They are ten years apart. He's just a child. He's never been given the chance that Neal was given. His mother is still married to the Butcher, while Neal's mother ran away, gave up information and settled down in WitSec.

And it still wasn't enough to keep the man in prison.

 _Maybe I'll run away,_ Neal thinks. It sounds stupid, even unspoken. Eighteen year olds don't run away. They grin and bear it and go to a college far away from home.

He doesn't want to spend the next four years of his life studying, pretending to be like everybody else. Playing Danny Brooks feels like a prison sentence. College feels like a prison sentence. He thinks again of Nathaniel. In four years, the kid would be twelve.

Neal doesn't know him. But he wants to. He wants to give Nathaniel the chance that was given to Danny. Kidnapping has never sounded appealing, but why not?

He's the son of the Butcher.

He needs a plan first, of course. Instead of studying math and art at college for the next few years, maybe he'll just make money. Save up. Maybe he'll hire someone to kidnap Nathaniel for him.

Maybe he'll go to New York.

* * *

Neal sits at the public computer in the library, squared away in the corner for privacy. It's a small article, on the fifth page, not the first. He wonders if that's a good thing.

The son and wife of Nathan Wesninski are missing. Maybe they ran away.

Maybe they're dead.

Nathaniel is just a kid. He's nine years old. He's not supposed to be dead.

But Neal is nineteen and he's just a kid, too, and he feels like he's dying.

Their current con was supposed to fund for Nathaniel. It would have been a shitty rescue mission—Moz isn't a kidnapper and Neal is still learning how to be a criminal, how to be himself. But it would have been worth it. Nathaniel would have been safe.

Maybe now they'll use the money to find his brother. Maybe they'll use it for a funeral. Maybe Neal or Moz will never be able to meet his brother.

Neal hopes he's wrong.

* * *

 

  
It takes Neal and Mozzie almost a year to find him. Neal has never felt so relieved in his life. He wonders what's wrong with him, why he's so goddamn invested in someone he's never even met.  
  
Mozzie encourages him. He gives him wine and talks about growing up in an orphanage. _He's lucky_ , Moz says, nostalgic and harrowed. _He has you._

It's a stroke of luck that they find him. Probably the only reason they do is because they're similar. Never staying in one place for too long, changing names, identities. Neil thinks he's even dyeing his hair. They stay quiet. It can't be easy for a kid.

Neal visits George at school after he watches his mother drop him off.

And isn't that funny, that his little brother is going by his middle name? Neal smiles. He’s skinny, has dark hair, and brown eyes, but he kind of looks like a Caffrey. Mozzie refers to him as _‘your mini-me.’_

He's posing as an art substitute. Their real teacher has a nasty bout of food poisoning. Really, Moz isn't the best cook. He's even infected the usual substitute, as well. The school was lucky to have just interviewed Neal a few days before.

He's young, and some of the other teachers give him grief over it, but he's talented and knowledgeable in more than just art. He earns their respect quickly.

George is in his third period class. It's right before lunch and unfortunately, someone stole his lunch bag. (According to Moz, there wasn't much there that was salvageable. Peanut butter on bread, a container with fruit, milk. The kid is skinny.)

Neal wants to cook for him.

Of course, he can't really do that at school. So he settles on buying lunch for the kid. It's obvious George doesn't really have friends and Neal does a good job of the pity act. He takes George to the classroom with him, nodding at teachers as they pass. Most are on their way to the lounge, but they smile at Neal on their way.

Neal tries not to make it obvious that he locks the door as he closes it behind him. George notices anyway. He's smart, catches on quick. Neal watches his expression as he decides what to do. In the end, he plays along.

Neal is already proud. Moz will _love_ him.

“Sorry,” Neal says, shrugging. He walks over to his desk, setting his lunch on the wrong side. He pulls up a small chair, cramps himself into it. George takes the teacher's chair, cushioned, with wheels. It swallows him up; he's so tiny. “Sometimes the other teachers barge in, but it's nice to have a little privacy.”

“I thought today was your first day.” His voice cracks and he coughs. It could be a cold. It could be fear.

Neal smiles. It's small, reserved, calming. He doesn't want to scare his brother, but he figures that's the only way to achieve his goals. He hates that, but at least the plan has moved on from kidnapping.

“I'm a substitute. Everyday is my first day.”

George hums. He picks at his lunch, but doesn't eat much. He watches Neal like a hawk all the while.

“You don't look like a George,” Neal says quietly.

He watches as George stills. For a moment, he's like a statue, hand hovering above his tray. Then he moves through the fear, continues eating. He doesn't say anything.

“It's alright,” Neal says. “Do I look like a Mr. Montgomery to you?”

George studies Neal quietly. Neal studies him back. His hands tremble as he tugs at his at his hair—a nervous gesture. His voice shakes slightly when he answers. “I—I think you look like a liar.”

Neal bites back on his reflexive grin. The kid's brave. It's obvious he's in fear. He's reading the situation wrong, but in his mind, Neal is dangerous. He should be quiet, careful. He isn't.

He's daring, but stupid. Neal admires him.

“Well, you're right,” he says. “I am a liar. My name's Neal.”

George doesn't answer. He shifts in the seat, towards the edge. He's getting ready to run.

“I ran away from home, not too long ago,” Neal continues. “My mom lied to me, about my dad. He was . . . mean.” He's not sure how much his little brother knows about their father. He has to remember that he's a kid. “I'm hiding from him.”

George shifts back in his seat, warily. He _wants_ to trust Neal; but he knows that he shouldn't.

It's a start.

* * *

  
Neal stays in the area for a while. Moz doesn't pressure him to leave—its easier to think of as a long con. These things take time.

He subs for the art class once more, as well as history. He visits the school often. He's ‘dating' the librarian and brings her lunch often. It's convenient and she's cute. The library is a good place, too; it's neutral.

George often finds him in there and they eat lunch together.

He doesn't quite trust him, not yet. He's not sure if Neal is telling the truth about them being brothers—after all, they really look nothing alike.

Neal's not sure if that makes it easier for him or harder. He doesn't look like their father. But he doesn't look like him, either.

Some days, George seems quietly excited to see him. As time goes on, those days happen more often than not. Today, though, he looks reserved. Jittery. Sad, almost.

Neal won't mention it until George does. He'll let the kid pretend for a little while, at least.

“How's it today, George?” He glances up from the book he's reading about Picasso. It's severely lacking, but it's meant for kids. Still, he makes little notes on the margins. Delilah smiles at him, pretends not to see.

“Um, it's going,” George says.

Neal raises an eyebrow at him but doesn't comment. The kid's adorable and stubborn, but he needs to learn how to lie.

Neal plays along, anyway. As always, their conversation is fairly pleasant. They're both kids and they act like it. Neal really feels like he has a little brother.

He finds himself wondering how things would have been if they'd been able to grow up together.

 

* * *

 

They grow up, anyway.

Neal hisses his breath in through his teeth so forcefully he almost chokes. His throat tightens; he can't breathe. His heartbeat is loud and heavy in his head. His vison is fuzzy and his eyes burn.

 _“Jesus_ , Abram.”

“It's Alex, now,” Abram says, tugging his shirt down so fast he winces.

“Alex,” Neal whispers. He feels like he's being strangled. “I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry.”

They meet when they can, on and off in various cities. Almost always in schools. Neal is a great teacher. But unlike Mary and Abram, he doesn't change his appearance. He has to leave, sometimes. It's too dangerous not to. He can't take Abram with him, even though Moz assures him it will be safer. Abram won't leave his mother and Neal won't betray his trust.

Only, its _hard_. Sometimes, he and Moz lose track of Abram. (It's a good thing; they've gotten better at hiding from Wesninski.) Sometimes, Abram can't contact them. Sometimes, Neal is ‘tied down.’

And he has his own life, now, playing chicken with the FBI. Moz and Kate are waiting for him in Paris. They're distracting Interpol and the Feds, but Neal doubts he fooled Peter. He has to lie low. He'll have to leave again, soon.

Neal furrows his brow. He can't always be there for his brother, but he's here, now.

“You sure did a number on yourself,” he says softly, unable to let it go.

“I couldn't stay in the car,” Abram says.

“I know.” He pauses. “I don't want you to have to roll out of a car again, but there's a way to do it that minimizes damage.”

Abram looks skeptical, but hopeful. His eyes are like Neal's tonight, no contacts.

“Will you teach me?”

They have until midnight. Mary is out running errands, since it's safer at night. A locked door, even the kind with a key card, does nothing for Neal. It was easy to sneak in. He'll stay with Abram for as long as he can.

“Of course.”

* * *

 

Another night, another hotel room. Burke is on his trail again, getting closer. But he can't worry about that, now. He can't worry about Kate, either. He lost her trail last week, but he picked up another one.

Neal slips into the hotel after midnight. Mary is gone, but he's not sure how long he has. Still, he has to do this, he has to take a chance. He hasn't seen Abram in ages. Moz told him what happened, anyway.

He walks in to see a short man pressing against the headboard of the single bed, one arm wrapped along his upper chest, the other pointing a gun. Neal drops his single grocery bag on the floor, throws his hands up in surrender.

“I know you don't like ice cream, much,” he says, “but this is a bit extreme, Abram.”

His little brother winces, dropping the gun on the end of the bed. He scowls, but his shoulders are already relaxing. He breaths a sigh of relief.

“You need to warn me, Neal.”

Neal grins. “How long do we have?”

“About four hours,” Abram says, shuffling down in bed further. He looks pained. Neal wonders if it's the bullet wound or if he really is that tired of sweets.

“Tonight, it's mint chocolate chip. You’ll love this one, I swear.”

* * *

 

Neil slips into the hotel room at around one in the morning. He knows its bad when Abram doesn't react. He doesn't pick up a gun; he doesn't flinch; he doesn't even twitch.

He's lying on the bed, underneath a heap of blankets. Only his slightly curly hair pokes out above the covers. For a heart stopping moment, Neal thinks, _He's dead. He's dead._

But he's not, thank God. He's feverish and sweaty, shaking, but weak. He moans when Neal presses his hand to his hot forehead.

“Abram,” Neal hisses, heart in his throat.

Abram doesn't answer him. He doesn't, for nearly twelve hours. Neal does what he can. He strips his brother, cleans the shallow knife wounds on his side with alcohol. He wets a washcloth and mops down the rest of him before shoving each leg into a pair of sweatpants. He puts clean bandages anywhere that needs it before tucking Abram back underneath the blankets.

He's aware for some of it. He recognizes Neal, tries talking to him.

He asks where his mother is.

Neal hopes he remembers when his fever passes.

He's not sure what Abram will want to do when he wakes up or how he'll react. They’ll stay there for a few days, Neal decides. He'll wait for Abram to get his strength back up.

But for now, Neal has work to do. He has to be prepared for when his brother wakes up.

 

* * *

  
The foraged ID reads _Neil Abram Josten._

It's his best work.

He wants to say it's a joke, his little brother's new name. In a way, it is. When he showed Abram his new driver's license, he saw a flicker of faint amusement in his eyes. It was relieving.

But it's also a reminder. That Abram has someone. Neal loves his little brother and he's willing to do anything for him. Abram knows this, but he doesn't understand, really. Neal is hoping that the name will inspire him to actually ask for help. He doubts it will.

Abram didn't even call him when his mother died. Only when his own injuries got infected and he needed antibiotics. The kid is stubborn, independent. Neal wonders if it's hereditary or if that's just the way they grew up.

Neal made his middle name Abram because Abram told him once it was his true name. It held meaning for him. His mother called him Abram in between identities, when she wanted him to be real. Neal wants him to be real, now.

Abram isn't coming with him. They'd argued for a day about it, but Neal gave in. He won't pressure his brother into something he doesn't want. He wants, at least, to go to school. He wants to graduate. He wants space after his mother's death.

Neal thinks he deserves it.

“You should play Exy,” Neal says. Abram—Neil, his name is Neil, now—looks as if he's been punched. “New beginnings, Abram. You've been obsessed with it since you were a kid.”

“Mom never let me,” Neil says.

“I'm letting you. Take some time to figure things out. Be yourself. Give in to your impulses.”

“That's terrible advice,” Neil says. He looks out the window. Neal knows he wishes he were driving, but he still has that haunted look in his eye. He has trouble focusing.

“Maybe,” Neal says, but continues. “Who do you want to be? Not an alias. Don't be an alias.”

“Aliases are safe.”

“So is never trying anything,” Neal answers. “Just Exy. I'm not saying you have to take an art class.”

Neil frowns, studies him out of the corner of his eye. There is still a bruise on his face, but it's fading. Everything will. He'll bounce back, Neal knows. His brother is a fighter. All he wants is to survive. Neal is hoping he'll learn to want more.

“Alright,” Neil says, lighting a cigarette. Neal isn't sure when he started smoking. He was Neil's age, too, when he had his first cigarette. “Just Exy.”

Neal smiles. Kate is in the wind. Mozzie is ready to move on. Peter is closer to him than he ever has been before. There's a warrant out for his arrest, for bond forgery, but nothing else. It's only a matter of time before he goes to prison.

But it doesn't matter. His little brother is alive.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I hope this one was okay, too! Different from the last one. It's mostly Neal and Neil. 
> 
> The next one will probably be more like the first one, but I hope you guys like them both. 
> 
> Please comment or leave kudos :)
> 
> PS--I'm thinking of veering off canon for the end of Season Three. I don't want Neal to leave, escape to paradise, so I'm thinking of either putting Keller back into play or someone loyal to Wesninski (or something similar.) Comment, message me, let me know you think! Expect Neap whump--nothing too bad, just some excitement. 
> 
> Talk to me on Tumblr -- Wolvesandwerewolvesbaby or Ohneilthefoxholecourt 
> 
> Thanks guys!


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